


Triptychs

by rei_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Sam Winchester, References to Illness, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7750660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is ready to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triptychs

**Author's Note:**

> I -- have no idea. On a scale of 0-100, my sleep tracker registered a 15 last night and I was awake in the middle of the night for about three hours, so this is what happens under those kind of circumstances. *Hands*

Growing up, Sam had always been able to trust three things: his mind, his body, and Dean. 

His faith in his mind was lost the moment he started hallucinating Lucifer -- the first time, not even after the Cage, not when Dean chased him down to an old abandoned warehouse and pressed into a wound cut so deep in his palm that it's never healed right and aches constantly. He's never trusted his mind since, always taken his cues from other people when he sees things that don't fit reality. It's why Lucifer was able to convince him of so much, back then.

Dean, well. That's complicated. Always has been. They've had their ups and downs, sure, but Sam never doubted for one instant that Dean had his back -- not until the voicemail. Freak. Bloodsucker. If I didn't know you, I'd hunt you. You're not my brother. I don't recognise you. That voicemail has always been at the back of Sam's mind, waiting for the moment when Dean decides to follow through on his promise. Fuck, that's half the reason Sam went through the trials to begin with and half the reason he didn't finish them. He should have, though. Should've saved Dean the trouble of Gadreel and the Mark and the Darkness and god, he's just so tired.

Now his body's failing him. It doesn't feel like his own anymore. His hands shake all the time. Sometimes he drops his pens or pencils and Dean will look at him and Sam will shrug, say, "I'm distracted, sorry." Sometimes he has to stop going down a flight of stairs, has to hold onto the railing while his vision settles and the muscles of his thighs stop twitching. Sometimes when he sleeps on his side he feels as though he's crushing his lungs, slow, inexorably, one inch closer to death every time.

He looks in the mirror and sees the shadows under his eyes become circles, sees the circles become hollows, sees the hollows become ditches become trenches become chasms. He starts wearing makeup to hide them. His skin's gone pale and his stamina's down to nothing. There are times when it hurts to walk half a block but at least that puts some colour in his cheeks. He wants to sleep eighteen hours a day and is never hungry. His mouth is so dry. He can barely get enough to drink. His piss is practically clear and he shits once a week.

There's something wrong with him. Sam even thinks he knows what it might be. It makes sense, then, that Amara would see. It makes sense she'd bring mom back for Dean. With mom here, with Castiel to look after, maybe Dean will finally, finally, let him go.

\--

He plots. He plans. And then, one day, he leaves. 

\--

Everyone always assumes Dean's the who one keeps things. Dean the soldier, the protector, the faithful and loyal son. He's the one with the pictures of mom, with the car and the favourite weapons and the leather jacket, the one who keeps Sam close and is always so obviously worried that's Sam's about to leave him at any given moment.

Sam's the collector, though. Not physical things; he doesn't care how often he gets a new laptop or phone, how often his guns or knives or clothes get changed out, what kind of car they're in or where they're sleeping or which place they're eating dinner at. He has a box filled with mementos, but mostly because Dean expects him to, would question him if he didn't -- because Dean does and Dean thinks that everyone should. 

Sam has a stash of Dean's smiles. He has memories of the way Jess's hair looked in the sun. He has perfect recollections of travelling down a thousand different highways a thousand different times of a thousand different days on the way to or from a thousand different cases. He has a million flashbacks of torture. Sam collects the way Dean sleeps. He knows all the ways Dean says his name. He hoards those remembrances in the quiet dark of his belly.

\--

He writes things down in a stack of college-ruled notebooks. He sends them off to the London branch of the Men of Letters. He asks them to keep the journals together -- the lore and his personal thoughts. He wants there to be a record of him somewhere as the way he was. He wants to know that he won't be forgotten. 

\--

Sam has always liked chess. Most people would assume it's the strategy but Dean really is the better hunter, the better soldier and general and warrior. No, Sam's always liked chess because it's the one game where the most powerful piece is female. The Queen has all the power. The Queen has freedom of movement, freedom to attack and defend, the option of the entire board, the ability to stay close to her King or travel to search out anyone and anything who might be planning to invade her kingdom and attack her husband.

Sam's always liked chess because he's always felt a little bit like he can relate -- not to the trapped King, like one might expect, but to the free and fierce Queen, with her irrepressible will and unstoppable drive. Dean, the one who directs everything, who plans for everything, and Sam, the one who gets sent away, the one who can leave because he's not -- because he's more useful gone, because he can survive on his own, away from his people, his army, because he can think on his feet, because he can cope on his own -- because he's not needed. That's what it comes down to. That's what it's always come down to. The Queen has the power to move unchecked around the board but only because no one stops her. The King has others. The King doesn't need her. 

He never has. 

\--

The door to hell cracks open. The Queen walks inside. She strides to the throne room and her visage evolves to fit her soul with every step she takes. Hell changes around her. Faint screams resound in her ears. There is a challenger sitting on her throne. And then there is not, and she takes her rightful place.


End file.
